It was a new year: new resolutions, emotional stocktake. Wow, what a very annoying little ankle-biting Yorkshire terrier bitch 2010 was.

 

Looking back on the year from a heart-health point of view, so so so so much happened. Which was the very last thing on Earth I expected to be the case.

 

January 2010 felt like The Apocalypse. My Knight in Shining Armour turned out to be just another phoney in foil. The little magic carpet that I had unpacked my life onto had ceased to ride and threw me off, unceremoniously. My heart was broken. No… it was given a caustic acid treatment and then high-pressure hosed all over the walls.

 

Yes. That was January. I was a comatose zombie for 3 months, completely unable to make decisions further than “breathe. Wash face. Change clothes if necessary. Brush teeth. Wail. Shake fists at the heavens. Repeat.” I then removed myself from the situation in order to think deeply and ponder about all the horrendous crimes to humanity I must have committed in a past life to be feeling such brazen favouritism from the Devil.

 

Break ups are a really amazing leveller. Sometimes being plucked from the skies when you think you’re soaring way up above troubled weather can be the best thing to ever happen to you. Learning to fly again is an incredibly humbling experience.

 

What came from that soul searching, despite recognition that Mr Heartbreaker was just a normal dude, and a dude who I was not destined to be with, was sheer terror that I may be single for the rest of my life and doomed to a life filled with Bold & The Beautiful re-runs, Koffiehuis and an insipid looking maltese poodle called Fluffles.

 

If only I had known.

 

If I could write a letter to myself now for ‘The January 2010 Me’, it would go a little something like this:

 

Dear Oh-My-God-I-Cannot-Breathe,

You know when assholes tell you “there are plenty of fish in the sea”?? You know how you give them that stroppy retort about the endangered fishing lists, mercury poisoning, etc?? Well. Big news. They’re right. You are about to dine on an all-you-can-eat fish smorgasbord buffet. No shit. Put on your bib and clear out your schedule sweetie… Enjoy.

 

Your Older, Wiser, Satiated Sister, January 2011 xoxoxo

 

This is the thing. We get told eleventy fazillion times from birth that we are born to a compulsory quest to find Your Soulmate. There is only one inside of the entire Universe. You don’t even know if you will ever be able to afford to go to Pofadder, nevermind fucking Prague, on search for this ever elusive bugger. Pressure pressure pressure, heart rate elevated, someone pass me a paper bag…

 

What if you get driven over by a golf-cart and are bed-bound for months? What then? Will he miraculously be hired as the impossibly attractive male nurse to change your bedpan??? Erm, I think not.

 

Relax. Breathe. This worldwide moronic search for Your One Soulmate Ever Ever on This Earth Forever is akin to taking ev.ery.thing the Bible says as um, gospel.

 

Newsflash: there isn’t just One Person for us all. WHO on Earth authorised that memo anyway? He should be shot. (Yes, it was a ‘he’). We’re all pretty much approximately the same. And there’s bazillions of us. All looking for love, all able to clean up pretty good, impress each other and make decent conversation.

Take your pick.

 

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